


Like a Kidnapper in the Night

by lunadiane



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Banter, Character Study, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Human Outsider (Dishonored), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-DotO, Slice of Life, sort of??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 23:27:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20609084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunadiane/pseuds/lunadiane
Summary: Humanity encroaches upon him in the form of seven sins.





	Like a Kidnapper in the Night

He hardly Marked rulers.

_ The Burden of Ruling _ was an image painted by the artist and courtier Elsie Cambrius to King Wynnedown IV of Morely in 1165. Dressed in the long, untailored robes of the era, an unnamed monarch in an iron crown stood on a sword, the bare soles of the King's feet half-sunken into the blade and pouring blood over the gleaming metal. 

A popular interpretation of the painting was Cambrius discreetly expressing her disapproval of Wynnedown IV's rule, and reminding him of the responsibilities his crown carried. Naturally, it became a favourite piece and symbol of rulers and aspiring courtiers vying for the throne ever since, validating their greed for power as taking up the mantle of a grave and dangerous responsibility. A classical replica, which is to say, one masterfully copied by Cambrius's successors and considered as valuable as the original, hung in one of the meeting rooms of Dunwall Tower. It was no mistake to claim that poor ruling threatened, and indeed, destroyed countless lives of smallfolk, but a majority of rulers were never in as much danger as Cambrius's blade foretold. They had wealth. They had guards. They had armies. They could, and did, slaughter their enemies and purge whole courts of corruption and insubordination. 

Many monarchs had turned to Void worship in attempts to further cement their rule, but he had ignored them all. His Mark would only be another toy for them to control their subjects. 

Coincidence was purely premeditated, fewer were causation. But a simpler onlooker (Billie Lurk) might have claimed that his decision to Mark Empress Emily Kaldwin I had led to his current, fortunate circumstances. 

(“Friends in high places." She had snarked at his request to sail them to Dunwall.)

He broke off a sizable chunk of his apricot tartlet and tossed it into his mouth. 

After his return to mortality, Billie Lurk had charitably deposited him at Dunwall Tower, and Emily Kaldwin had obligingly allowed him residence in one of its many rooms. This was the woman who had diplomatically (naively) offered Delilah the same upon hearing her claim to be Jessamine’s half-sister, even after witnessing the witch march into the Throne room with Luca Abele and Clockwork Soldiers at her side. 

But Emily did not have to follow the merciful path her father had traveled. She did not have to be polite or accommodating in the slightest, she could have let the luxurious interiors and plush bedding wear her skin and flesh soft and fragile, let the fine food and decadent sweets rot inroads into her heart, and finally allow the blood and chaos of the coup to twist her into paranoia and cruelty. Instead, she survived the attacks on her life and fought her way back to reinstate a just rule, the only blood she spilled pouring from Delilah’s slit throat. 

His Marking of Emily Kaldwin had nothing to do with his comfortable lodgings at the seat of power in the Empire, but it was certainly advantageous. Human again, he would be a liar if he claimed not to enjoy frivolities like velvet clothes, goosefeather mattresses, and all the freshly baked apricot tartlets he wanted.

He chewed, and the apricot between his teeth burst apart to drench his tongue with juice.

The fruit and the warm, crumbly tart complemented each other perfectly, the sweetness of the fruit highlighted by the savoury tart, and the weight of the pastry balanced by the lightness of apricot. 

The majority of confections through the Isles originated from their fruit, from pears stewed in whiskey to apple pies. He swallowed, and bit off part of the tart to nibble on a crunchy, lightly browned morsel.

The day would come where Emily asked him to leave or slotted him into a vestigial position in the Imperial bureaucracy. But before that, despite the lack of official documentation, he was essentially a noble during his stay in Dunwall Tower and afforded all the privileges of one.

He could never stomach whale meat, which was unfortunate considering its prevalence in the Empire. Lightly seared, the meat remained pink, and he always tasted blood on his tongue when he tried a piece. Emily had said nothing when he pushed the tray away, clearly sensing his revulsion, and called for a bowl of blood ox stew instead. For her understanding, he was grateful. 

The mark of privilege was a simple threshold - the ability to choose, to turn his nose at a dish because he did not want to eat it, and be served another. 

Nevertheless, he had perfectly valid reasons for abstaining from whale meat. In contrast to the blood ox, prized as a valuable source of labour and symbol of industry, hence well taken of, the leviathan was reviled as a monstrous, bloodthirsty beast that was tortured and bled in a long, agonizing death for the sake of ruthless efficiency. He refused to support it, to treat their flesh, byproducts of their suffering, as mere food.

Each whale slaughtered brought the Isles closer to oblivion. When the last whale was gone, the Void would devour all the stars in the skies.

There were no innocents in the Isles, and while not as atrocious as the whale meat the Empire sustained on, the sweets of the Empire did not escape exploitation. After all, the Imperial Crown had first set their sights on Serkonos for the sugar they produced. But in comparison -

The door to his quarters was open, and Emily Kaldwin was standing in his room, staring at him. His teeth closed around another bite as their eyes met. 

Leaving the domain of introspection, his physical surroundings magnified in his peripheral view, especially the small pile of crumb-covered wrappers of previously consumed tarts on his lap and the empty tray on the table next to him. He felt his face heat, surely greasy and covered with butter and a few stray crumbs. 

"There is not a drop of blood in the creation of this confection." He blurted out. 

She lifted an elegant eyebrow, lips twitching with the urge to laugh. "I should hope not." She added after a puzzled pause, tone full of mirth. "That would ruin the taste."

For some reason, she'd wandered into his quarters. He supposed she had every right to, the laws granted divine right to the position of the Empress. The Tower- the Empire - belonged to her. He dropped his feet from where they had been perched on the seat of the chair and adjusted his posture. 

"I see you have a favourite. It's not what I expected." She admitted with a small smile.

"Not just you. The Abbey and the Academy have long claimed that I feed on all matter of hideous things. Blood, for example. Human hearts."

"Whale Oil, which seems too easy an answer." Emily continued, a twinkle in her eye. 

"All absolutely disgusting, I'm sure." He ate the last piece of tart and licked his fingers, lapping up the remaining juice and pastry. The tray's worth of tarts was gone, all devoured. 

"Are you going to get some more?" She asked dryly, looking at the empty tray at his side cleared entirely of sweets.

He briefly contemplated it. Dinner was soon approaching, and the kitchens had long since readied to prepare meals for an additional occupant. It was common for noble households to bar the kitchen staff from eating the same food as the titled family, out of nothing but a petty attempt to further reinforce the class structure, but Emily Kaldwin could not care less about the practice. The kitchen staff of Dunwall Tower, apart from the prestige and pay, ate like monarchs.

Miriam Wrenhaven, a new kitchen girl who had only been at work for two weeks so far, would be delighted to take home a Lord's dinner to her four younger siblings. 

"Yes, I think I will." He agreed. "Get the maids to fetch another tray, if you would."

Emily tilted her head, and affected an expression of mock outrage. "Do you have no manners, sir? Commanding the Empress herself?"

"Who else is suited to command the Empress than a God himself, my dear Emily?" He smirked, wiping his fingers on an embroidered handkerchief. 

She laughed, and called on the intercom nevertheless. 

**Author's Note:**

> writing the outsider really be like having him wax philosophical about monarchy, ruling and choice just to have him eat sweets huh


End file.
